A bead of sweat trembles on Oliver’s collarbone, glistening in the cedar-drenched haze of the Finnish sauna, a molten drop that catches the low light like a lover’s gaze. Nineteen, Brighton-born, and tethered to the wild pull of the next coastline, he claims he’s here to “melt the tension from a dawn surf.” Fvcking lie. He’s baring himself to the heat, testing how much of his skin he can expose before his pulse betrays him, pounding with a hunger he can’t outrun.

Today, the heat’s working him over. Steam licks at his damp, tousled curls, curling over the freckled expanse of his broad shoulders, slick with a sheen that screams to be touched, tasted. Each heavy breath sends a cloud drifting over his chest —tight, sculpted, n¡pples hardening under the humid caress.

He shifts, robe slipping open, deliberate, the fabric grazing his skin like a teasing fingertip, parting to reveal the sharp V of his hip. Beyond the glass, a plunge pool waits, ice-cold, ready to jolt his nerves alive; he’ll dive in soon, gasping, cursing, every inch of him electric.

Oliver’s life is a wet, throbbing pulse: dawn longboard sessions where salt burns his lips, midday laps cutting through pool water, midnight skinny-dips under a moon that paints his bare as$ and stiffening c0ck in molten silver.

He stitches travel vlogs on the road, voice low and husky, spinning tales of Bali’s reef breaks or the sticky-sweet drip of Portuguese pastries after hours in the surf, his mouth still briny. On camera, he’s pure sêx, eyes fvcking the lens; off camera, he’s tripping over deckchairs, mumbling apologies, that clumsy charm making you ache to unravel him.

The sauna’s heat wraps him like a lover’s mouth, heavy and unrelenting, coaxing a flush across his chest, his thighs. His breath hitches, the steam’s wet kiss sinking into his skin, stirring a slow, insistent throb below his waist. The robe falls open completely, forgotten, as his c0ck stirs, thickening against the damp heat, the air itself stroking him.

He leans back, thighs parting, one hand trailing down his slick chest, fingers brushing the taut skin of his stomach, teasing the line where his arousal pulses. His other hand finds his shaft, grip firm, slow, stroking from base to tip with a deliberate drag, thumb circling the sensitive head, slick with sweat and need.

His lips part, a low groan escaping as he works himself, hips shifting, chasing the rhythm of the heat, each stroke a pulse of raw want. The steam swirls thicker, mirroring the haze in his half-lidded eyes, his breath ragged now, chest heaving as he pumps faster, fingers tight, slick sounds mingling with the coals’ soft hiss. His body arches, muscles tensing, a sharp gasp breaking free as he spills, hot and messy, over his hand, the release shuddering through him like a wave crashing.

He slumps back, chest slick, pulse hammering, a lazy, sated grin curling his lips. The sauna holds him, warm and conspiratorial, as his breathing steadies. Outside, another wave, another border, another dare waits. But here, in this steam-soaked haze, Oliver’s claimed his own heat, every glistening inch of him fvcked-out and alive, ready to ride the next tide.

Stay hard,

The Lust Boys Team

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